“Hey, hotshot.”

The sound of Troy’s voice knocked me out of my stupor. I looked around. The gym was empty.

“Team meeting for non-lettermen,” Troy said. “Room one seventy-eight. Hurry.”

“Where is that?”

Troy frowned. “You serious?”

“I’m new to the school, remember?”

“Lower level. Push through the metal doors. Hurry. Coach Grady hates when someone shows up late.”

“Thanks.”

I dropped the ball and hustled down the corridor. As I took the stairs down, a small niggling started at the back of my brain. It wondered how come Coach Grady would call a meeting so far from the gym. I wish that I had stopped there and listened to that niggling. But there was really no time. And what was I going to do anyway, run back upstairs and ask my buddy Troy for more details on the meeting?

So I ran down the corridor. There was no else in the halls. The echo of my sneakers slapping the linoleum sounded as loud as . . .

. . . as gunshots.

My head started spinning. Where exactly was I? The lower level was for senior classes. I had never been here before. But if my sense of direction was correct, I was pretty close to being right on top of where Spoon had been shot just a few days earlier.

I hurried my step.

Room 166. Then room 168. I was getting closer. 170, 172 . . .

Up ahead I saw the metal doors Troy had mentioned. I pushed through them. They closed behind me with a bang.

And locked me out.

I stopped and closed my eyes. There was no room 178. Practice was probably starting right now. I would have to go out the back, through the football field, and around to the front entrance in order to make my way to the gym.

I ran as fast as I could but it still took me nearly ten minutes to get back. My teammates were already doing the weave drill when I burst in through the door. Coach Grady was not pleased. He turned and snapped, “You’re late, Bolitar.”

“It isn’t my . . .”

I stopped. What exactly was I going to say here? Troy looked at me with that same stupid smirk. He knew. I had two choices. One, tell Coach Grady what really happened, in which case Coach Grady might or might not believe me, but either way I’d be forever labeled a tattletale. Or, two, keep my mouth shut.

“Sorry, Coach.”

But Coach Grady wasn’t done. “Being late to practice is disrespectful to both your teammates and your coaches.”

I nodded. “It won’t happen again.”

“You haven’t even made the team yet.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And this won’t help your cause.”

“I understand, sir. I’m really sorry.”

Coach Grady stared at me a beat too long. “Run three laps and then get on line. Troy?”

“Yes, Coach?”

“Where’s Buck?”

I would say that Buck was meaner than a snake, but that wouldn’t be nice to the snake.